Catch Rider (9780544034303) (18 page)

I found an old New Zealand horse blanket in Wayne's attic. It had mouse holes, but I taped them up with duct tape and started turning Sonny out in it to protect his coat.

One day we set up a tough course for Sonny. Before I mounted up, Wayne called me over to where he stood in the center of our makeshift ring.

“You know the difference between soft eyes and hard eyes?” Wayne asked me. I shook my head.

“Look straight ahead at that jump.” He walked in a semicircle away from me, toward the edge of my vision. “Tell me when I'm out of your sight.”

“Now,” I said.

“That's it? You can't see me?”

“No.”

“You're looking with hard eyes. Now, relax your eyes and let them take in everything in front of you. You're still looking at the jump, but with soft eyes. See all the things in the corners of your vision—on the edges.”

“Okay.”

“
Now,
tell me when you can't see me.” He walked around next to me again, but I could still see him, so I waited a bit.

“Okay, now.”

“Well, that's a lot better.”

“Yeah.”

“When you're in the ring, riding the course, use your soft eyes. See everything. See the jump in front of you, but rest your eyes. When you rest your eyes, the horse can relax. He knows you got it.”

I wondered why he'd never told me this before.

“Remember, they're judging you, not him. But if he makes a mistake, they're going to decide whether it was his mistake or yours. If he trips, was it just a stumble, or were you letting him get away from you? Were you underriding? Were you overriding?”

“You ain't as dumb as I thought,” I said.

He laughed. “Let me tell you
something.
”

This was how he started a lecture. Sometimes it was “Let me tell you
something you don't know.
”

“A horseman is somebody who can break a horse, jump a horse, shoe a horse, breed a horse, work with any kind of horse, any problem, any age. When I was a kid, I rode on trail rides for fun, we jumped in the ring, I went along on fox hunts at Folly Farm, I rode in shows, I rode in a steeplechase. I done everything. Nowadays, these show barns get the top blacksmith, the top vet. You got a trainer for the jumpers and another trainer for the hunters. It's specialized because they all want to be perfect. They all want to be the perfect equitation rider or the perfect pony rider or create the perfect working hunter or the perfect pleasure horse. But the best rider is the rider who can ride anything. The best rider is a catch rider.”

I hadn't heard him put it all together like that before.

“I want to be a catch rider,” I said.

“Then you gotta get on anything, any horse, and you gotta find a way to make it work.”

When we were done with the course, I turned Sonny out into the field. He trotted nervously along the rail of the fence, back and forth.

“He's lonely. Get that donkey,” Wayne said.

I put a halter on Mr. Wilcox, brought him in, and turned him loose with Sonny, who sniffed the donkey and tried to bite him. The donkey pinned his ears, spun around, backed up to kick Sonny, and squealed bloody murder.

“Get that thing outta there before he rips the horse to pieces!” Wayne hollered, but he was already doing it himself. “That is the bitingest donkey I ever seen!” He grabbed the donkey by the nose with one hand and behind the ears with the other and took him down, right to the ground. When the donkey got up, Wayne shoved him into the other paddock. That donkey was as ornery as they come, but I could tell Wayne was stuck with him because, although he would never admit it, he liked him. Unless that donkey tried to stomp him in the head—which some of them will do—Wayne would keep him.

“What about Sub?” I asked.

Wayne nodded.

I put Sub in with Sonny and watched them sniff each other. Sub nosed the pile of hay, and Sonny watched him with his ears up. They sniffed each other some more, and Sonny squealed and kicked out with his hind leg as if to say, “See, I can kick,” but Sub just ignored it, so we knew they'd get along.

W
E'RE LEAVING IN
four days. I think you should get out of the ring and take him for a ride. Then we let him rest.”

Time had flown by. I hadn't been to school for more than a week. We had made the hotel reservation, done the entry forms, and planned the trip up to New York. Wayne had spent more money than I wanted to think about. I promised myself I would pay him back someday.

Wayne had changed the oil in the truck and replaced the brake pads, gotten two good used tires, and rewired the trailer so the brake lights came on when they were supposed to. He installed some Plexiglas inside the trailer so the wind wouldn't bother the horse too much if it got cold on the highway.

We were talking about all the things we still had to do when I saw a blue truck pull in and realized that it was Wes.

“Boy, you lost?” said Wayne, smiling.

“What are you doing all the way over here?” I said.

“I had to look at a horse in Goshen. Some half quarter horse, half Belgian they were using to pull a buckboard.”

“How's his feet?” asked Wayne.

“Exactly,” said Wes.

Quarter horses can have soft little feet, and with the extra weight of a Belgian draft horse—Belgians have their own hoof issues—that could lead to trouble.

Wes got out of his truck. “I heard you guys are headed to New York. Pretty brave of you, Sid.”

I didn't know what to say. I tied Sonny's lead shank up to an eyehook. He moved his haunches around to the side so he could look at Wes.

“I'm sorry about what happened,” he said.

“It ain't your fault,” I said.

“I know it ain't. But, you know, her mother is just wicked sometimes.”

“Her mother didn't fire me.”

“I know. But that's where it all comes from.”

I turned away from him to pick Sonny's feet. “You drove all the way over here to tell me what a nice person she is?”

“I know she don't have the right to act like that,” he admitted. He put his hands in his pockets and changed the subject. “This your horse?”

I nodded.

“I like the look of him.”

“Thanks. He's honest, and that's all I can ask for.”

“That is pretty much everything, ain't it?” he asked. “How's his jump?”

“Terrific.”

I showed Wes around Wayne's place, introduced all the horses, and showed him the cattle in the lower field.

I saw the red horse picking a fight with one of the ponies. I noticed that when he trotted away, he didn't look lame anymore. Wes and I went out into the field and caught him. Wes was so gentle with the horse that the horse picked up his foot to show Wes before Wes had even touched him.

I got Wes to trot the horse out for me. The gelding was sound, but he'd lost some muscle tone. Wes suggested I move him to the paddock on the hill so he'd build up his shoulders and hindquarters as he grazed up and down the slope. He said that since he was a quiet, straightforward horse and had such a big jump, he might make a nice field hunter. I figured I could trailer him to Beezie's and work him on her cross-country course after the finals.

Wes looked at his watch and said he had to leave.

“Well, good luck, Sid. You earned it. I'll see you there.”

Driving home that night in the dark, I didn't know what to think about Wes, but I sure was glad he'd come over. No boy had ever talked to me like he did. He listened to what I said, like he thought it was important. I wasn't used to that. Sometimes when I looked him in the eye, he looked away, like he was shy. I wasn't used to that, either.

I walked into the house and decided not to lock horns with Donald because I didn't want to get distracted. I wasn't going to let him take all of this away from me. I still didn't know who to tell about him hitting me. I would keep my promise to Ruthie, but I didn't know how.

Donald was eating at the table. My mother came out of the kitchen. “We have dinner if you want it,” she said.

“I'll pass,” I said, looking at him. I should have been more polite, but when I saw him, I just couldn't.

Sure enough, he grabbed me by the arm and just about threw me into a chair. Melinda rushed at him, and he pushed her away so hard that she slammed into the corner cupboard.

Without thinking about it—although I'd thought about it a hundred times—I ran into my room and got the .44 out from under my bedsprings. It was waiting there for me. I felt like I was in a movie as I picked it up and wrapped my hand around the grip.

I walked out into the living room, where Melinda was backing away from him. He reached up to grab her by the face, and I pointed the pistol at his head. He turned to look at me, and so did she.

I clicked the safety off.
Snap.

Donald froze. His mouth was slightly open.

“Girl . . .” he said.

There was a long pause. I watched his hands and feet to make sure he didn't make a move. I was good at this. Then the words just came out of me, very calm. “My daddy went to the store one day and never came home. I didn't think my life could get any worse. But you sure found a way.”

“If you were my daughter, I'd—”

“Sidney, give it to me,” Melinda said.

“No.”

“Sidney.”

“He hit me, Mama. He hit me in the face.”

“Now.”

“That's a lie,” he said.

“It ain't a lie. It's the truth. He knocked me down on the floor. I didn't tell you because I was scared you wouldn't believe me.” My voice broke. “Or that you would believe me and you wouldn't care.”

Donald started to reach for me, but I looked down the barrel of that pistol right at his head and he stopped cold.

Melinda watched me, breathing through her mouth, not moving a muscle.

“You let her run this house,” Donald said to Melinda. “You're the one who ought to smack her once in a while.”

Suddenly, Melinda faced him. In almost a whisper, she said, “You get out of my house now, and if I ever see you near my daughter, I'll kill you myself.”

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.

Donald looked at his hot dinner, sat down, and reached to take a bite, and I almost couldn't believe what happened next. She took his dinner plate and threw it at him.

He jumped up, bellowing. “You'll never find a man, Melinda Criser. You're going to wind up a dried-up old bitch all by yourself.”

“I'll take my chances,” she said.

He looked toward the cabinet in the living room. “I'm going to Bakersfield,” he said. “You want to live here in this shit hole—”

“You thinking about your knives, ain't you?” She laughed. “I'll mail them to you in Bakersfield.” I didn't know if she was serious. “But you set foot near this house or near either one of us again, like I said, I'll kill you.”

“You're both crazy as shit.”

“
Get out!
” she roared, and I nearly jumped a foot.

He walked out to his truck, started it up, and tore away, spinning gravel. When the sound of the truck had died out, Melinda reached for the gun. I pulled it away from her. “If you think I'm sleeping without this tonight, you really are crazy,” I said.

“I got my own,” she said. “But we gotta get rid of those knives tonight.”

I wanted to ask her what the hell she had her own gun for if she wasn't going to use it on a shit heel like Donald, but instead I went to the cabinet and pulled out the knives. I wrapped them in a bath towel and gave them to her. We walked together down the hill toward Route 220 and she shoved them down a storm drain. I heard the clatter below.

“I hope some sewer rat don't find them. He'll come get us,” I joked.

“Ain't no one going to use those knives,” she said. “They'll be down there a long time, rusting.”

When we got home, Melinda locked the doors and windows and closed the curtains. She got all of Donald's stuff together—his clothes, his magazines, everything—and made a pile at the end of the driveway. I helped her clean up the food on the floor. She poured herself a glass of whiskey, drank it, and went to bed.

I didn't know what she was thinking, but it had to be a lot of things. I figured she was scared and relieved and kind of sick about everything.

I was jumpy that night. Every time a car drove by, I looked out the window. I kept thinking I saw Donald lurking behind a tree.

The next morning my eyes burned from no sleep. I went into the kitchen and made eggs, put two frozen waffles in the toaster. Melinda got up when she heard me in there, and she looked as though she hadn't slept, either.

“I'm changing all the locks,” she said. “But I want us to sleep at Wayne's for a few days.”

Melinda drove us to Wayne's in my car. I couldn't remember the last time she'd driven me anywhere, and it felt good not to be the one driving. We wound up toward Hot Springs, along the Jackson River, and I just stared out the window.

 

We told Wayne what had happened. When Melinda said that Donald had hit me, he stumbled backwards as though someone had shoved him, and said, “Hmmmmph!” He was silent for about ten seconds while we held our breath. Then he pounded his fist so hard on the kitchen table that I heard a piece of wood snap. “Why didn't you tell me?” Wayne shouted at me.

“That ain't the question,” Melinda said. “The question is why didn't she tell
me,
and the answer is that she was trying to.” Her face was trembling.

I have to admit, I liked that they were all worked up and upset, finally seeing what I had been seeing and finally carrying what I had been carrying. It was their job to deal with this, not mine. They had been too busy thinking about themselves. Now they were stunned like hornets who'd woken up on a cold morning, nearly frozen, crawling around with their stingers curled up underneath them, not knowing what to do.